


Day 1: Birthdays

by Valedoceanlover



Series: dicktigerweek2020 [1]
Category: Grayson (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: M/M, My First Fanfic, Romani Dick Grayson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:06:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22844518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valedoceanlover/pseuds/Valedoceanlover
Summary: Tiger has never cared for birthdays before, maybe it's time that changed.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Tiger
Series: dicktigerweek2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1642267
Kudos: 14





	Day 1: Birthdays

**Author's Note:**

> Dicks romani name is Ryeka.

The front door opens and Grayson’s voice filters into his apartment, keys clank as there dropped into the bowl by the front entrance. A light chuckle as he closes the door fallowed by the rustle of fabric as he removes his coat and shoes. 

“Tiger!” He rounds the corner into the kitchenette, the small smile already on his face growing in size and warmth. ” How long have you been here?” 

“ Since four.” I reply. He lifts grocery bags onto the counter as his phone call draws back his attention. I stop chopping the vegetables I’m preparing for dinner. His cupboards and fridge were mostly empty, not giving me a lot of options on what to make. In one various fruits, veggies and a box of spaghetti, a couple packets of post it notes and a small first aid kit. It must be time to refill his. I look over him my stomach tight, he looks alright. No bandages poking out from under clothes, his stance is loose and relaxed. His laugh cuts through the air. No winces or shuttered breath. He has no injuries worth worrying about right now. I let out a small breath I didn’t realize I was holding and let myself relax. 

The other bag consists of raw packaged meats; some in waxed paper, but all with a sticker from the only halal butcher shop in the city. 

In a third bag; there’s nothing but children’s cereal; nothing but chemicals and sugar. I resist the urge to toss them all directly into the trash. I have in the past, whenever I came over and he left me alone long enough. His growing exasperation at his disappearing food turned to fury when he caught me in the act. The fight that followed was… altogether pointless. He’s convinced Nightwing will kill him before his bad eating habits ever catch up with him. He glances at me from the corner of his eye, a warning to leave them alone. Tony the Tiger: from which he gave me the ridiculous nickname smirks up at me, daring me. It’s not worth the fight; I don’t have the energy for it tonight. 

I leave the groceries where they are and return to my preparations, nothing catching my fancy tonight. I’ve barely retuned to my task when he starts to put them away. 

By the time he’s finished, his call has come to an end with an “I’ll talk to you later, Roy.” He sighs and drops his phone onto the island counter. 

“Salam!” He greets as his arms wind around my waist and he lightly presses his body against my back, followed by a light kiss to my left shoulder. 

“Salam.” He rests his head where he kissed for a few moments, his breathing slow. I can feel his smile as he kisses the same spot again, then turns to see what I’m doing. 

“What are you making?” 

“Supper.” 

“Obviously.” He mutters, no doubt rolling his eyes.” Anything I can help with?” 

* * *

By the time were finished eating on his worn out couch he’s had another three phone calls. He hangs up the latest and stretches. “You’re popular tonight.” I comment. Only slightly annoyed that on one of the few occasions we can spend together in person without work involved, he’s near constantly distracted. 

“Sorry,” He must hear it in my voice. “The thing about having so many friends and family is that they want to wish you a happy birthday when it comes along.” A brief pause and a slightly quieter. “When they remember.” He turns to me tucking his legs in ‘criss cross apple sauce’ position; his knees press against my thigh and his smile reaches his eyes. “But I’m yours for the rest of the evening!” Baring of course; if Nightwings attention is needed. 

* * *

We’re resetting the chessboard, his phone ringing, again in a drawer across the room. He gets up an annoyed huff escaping him as he goes to it. The noise ends, the faint sound of it powering down reaches me. Praise Allah. It only took him three hours to get as fed up with it as I am. “So…” I glance at him.” You’re not going to wish me a happy birthday then?” 

“Happy Birthday.” 

“Wow, put any more emotion into that and you might burst something!” There’s no doubt he can feel the glare I send his way. 

“Happy Birthday!” I force excitement into my voice. 

“Thanks.” He deadpans” when’s yours anyway?” 

“My what?” 

“Birthday. When was the Tiger king of Kandahar born?” He says it jokingly but he looks serious. 

“Why?” 

“So I can give a far better celebration than this, no offence.” Offence? Is that why he thinks I’m here today? I contemplate telling him it’s just a coincidence but I think better of it. It would probably piss him off. 

“I don’t have one.” I admit. The chessboard’s back in order, he’s still across the room so I make the first move. 

“What do you mean you don’t?” 

“I just don’t.” 

“Baby’s don’t just appear out of thin air.” He’s serious and visibly confused. 

“In Afghanistan we don’t have birthdays; celebrations or dates.” 

“How?” He’s just confused now, and still on the other side of the room. I gesture to his seat. He takes it and not looking moves his piece. 

“It’s just not something we keep track of, we have no need to, besides half the time no one can agree when events even happened.” 

“That’s not something that’s really up to interpretation.” 

I sigh. “When the calendar system was changed dates became… complicated.” 

“So what, babies are born and it’s treated as an average Thursday?” 

“Panjshanbeh.” I correct. “And for the most part. If the parents can afford it they might have a cradle celebration to celebrate the babies new bed, but that is a once in a lifetime occasion.” We continue playing in silence. 

“So how do you know how old you are?” He breaks it in absolute bewilderment. 

“I don’t. Typically you can ask those who were around for your birth what they think it is. But anyone who might of known mine died a long time ago.” It’s quiet, the only noise; our breathing, the soft clink of the pieces as they’re set down, and the traffic outside drowned by the rain that started falling, it’s scent and a slight chill drifting into the old and worn down apartment. 

* * *

“Salam!” Grayson practically sings when I’m barely through the door. Which doesn’t remain closed? I push it again till it clicks in place, I step away to remove my coat and it opens again. Grayson glides down the short hall to the entrance, pushes all his weight against the door and turns the deadbolt. “It’s finicky.” His eyes meet mine, slight embarrassment quickly overshadowed by joy. 

“Salam.” I greet as his arms twine around my neck and he leans forward a silent ask for a kiss. His right eye is slightly poofy and his bottom lip is split, a couple days old but still noticeable. I close the distance, I don’t press to hard mindful of the injury. I almost have my hands to his waist, ready to spend the next few minutes enjoying the gentle press of his body against mine when he’s suddenly gone, back down the hall. 

A sigh escapes me at the loss. As I take off my coat and shoes I take in the place. It’s warm; Thank Allah for that, but the wallpaper is dull and peeling, the flooring creaked as Grayson moved. Under the delicious smell of Cardamom and Zaatar there’s the scent of dampness. I hang my coat on one of the hooks which proceeds to remove itself from the wall. My dissatisfaction escapes me in what Grayson likes to call a growl. I try my coat on another hook, it stays but I doubt it will last the night. Moving further in the dampness increases but so does what must be supper. Turning into the archway to my left I find Grayson over the stove, a decrepit old thing that looks like it would sooner explode than heat a pot of water. 

The sight of Grayson in the warm overhead lights, the smell of home swirling in the air freezes me in place. The scene fills me with warmth. I would happily stay here forever in this second, but the stove catches my eye again, and the sooner Grayson’s away from it the better. “How long have you been here?” He startles. 

“Uh, three weeks?” His momentary puzzlement gives way to a blinding smile; one I often wish would never leave his face. It turns sheepish as I place the broken hook on the counter. “Oh.” 

“How long will you be here?” 

He chuckles and rubs his neck.” My lease is for the next four months. It’s …” he pauses.” It’s not that bad.” He must realize there’s no chance he’ll be able to convince me because he turns back to the stove. 

“Anything I can do to help?” I step to the kitchen sink to wash my hands. 

“Nope.” He pops the ‘p’ as his hands come to rest on my chest. “Food will be done by the time you finish your prayers.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yup!” He lightly pushes me out of the room. “Your prayer rug,” The one he keeps for whenever I visit.” is in the spare bedroom. Door after the bathroom. 

* * *

By the time I return the stove is off and the table set, Grayson’s just pouring what smells to be chai tea from the teapot I got him, when he decided he was going to start making it the right way. His exasperation at finding there’s even a wrong one is still a fond memory, as are the multiple times I have tried to teach him the right way. 

Suppers delicious, his attempts at Middle Eastern food having improved leaps and bounds from his first, and in all honesty next six attempts, that were simply inedible. I doubt even his ex Koriand'r, would have been able to eat them. 

Loud explosions resonate through the building. I’m on my feet before I realize it. I don’t even have a chance to move, to get out, and get away before Grayson’s hand is on my forearm. Gentle and firm. “It was just fireworks.” His voice calm, eyes soft and he’s taking deliberately slow breaths. “Some drunken jackass is trying to be the life of the party.” More go off; this time I notice the difference in sound even as the shock wave crashes through me. I close my eyes and concentrate on Grayson’s touch. Once I feel grounded enough I sit back down, his hand leaving me as I do. 

“Idiots! They’re going to kill someone!” 

“Ya, police will be by shortly to arrest them.” I scoff. 

“Happy western New Year, Grayson.” 

“Happy New Year Tig.” He half smiles and starts collecting dishes. I rise to help but he holds up a hand. I sink back in my seat and use the time it takes him, to finish collecting my nerves. It takes a while for the slightly distant clinking of glass ware and sloshing of water to stop as any leftovers are placed in the fridge (I don’t even want to look) and washed. I don’t even realize I’ve closed my eyes till the fridge opens one last time, theirs the light plink of something being placed on the table and a lighter clicking. 

I open them and there’s Grayson, lighter in hand and a lit chocolate cake. “I didn’t realize cake was a tradition in celebrating New Year’s.” 

“Cake is for any celebration.” He explains firmly, before his expression turns sheepish. “Besides I was thinking more along the lines of a birthday cake.” 

“Your birthday was over half a year ago.” 

“Not mine.” He glances away and rubs his neck, a small breath escaping his lips. “It’s New Year’s, and the unofficial birthday of most Afghani people.” He looks at me almost expectantly. A small smile gracing his features. I must not give him the reaction he was looking for because he starts to back pedal. “I mean if, it offends you, it’s just a New Year’s cake. If you want.” A dejected look falls upon him. I sigh and rest my head in my right hand. 

“Grayson.” He looks to me. “Why? What is with you and birthdays?” 

“Their important.” 

“How so? Millions have gone through life without them, they are meaningless.” 

“Birthdays are not meaningless!” 

“Really?” 

“They’re an anniversary, a celebration of another year survived. In our line of work I think that’s important. To let those you care about, know you’re glad they survived another one.” 

“Surviving a year is not that impressive.” 

“How many times did you almost die in the last year?” I move to respond but, I don’t know the answer to that. It’s never been something I’ve considered worth keeping track of. 

“Tiger, I’m happy you lived through another year, and I want to show you, is that really so weird?” No, is what I want to say but what comes out is: 

“You’re a fool.” His exasperated sigh must be audible on the other side of the city. 

“Fine. Happy western New Year!” He’s stiff as he blows out the single candle, and quickly removes the cake from the table. “Are you wanting a piece or not? 

“Grayson,” My eyes catch on the drying rack, on the cake pans half buried under the newly done dishes. 

“Yes or no?” 

“Thank you.” I respond instead with all the sincerity I can muster. “Thank you,” I say it softer this time. “for caring.” The tension bleeds from his body.” I don’t need a birthday.” 

“Ok. So, is that yes or no to a piece?” his voice is soft, accepting. 

“Bring it here.” He nods and reaches for one of the kitchen drawers. “The whole thing, Grayson.” He does so, a dozen quips flashing behind his eyes. I relight the candle with the lighter he left on the table. He places the cake down. “Thank you for wanting to celebrate another year of my survival, Ryeka. For making it worthwhile.” He relaxes, a soft smile forming on his lips and his eyes.” So, what happens now?” 

“You don’t know?” 

“I don’t exactly have a lot of experience in this do I?” 

“Haven’t you had coworkers that have had birthdays?” 

“Yes. I wasn’t invited.” I admit. A soft chuckle escapes him. 

“I can’t imagine why.” 

“Save your sarcasm.” He laughs. It makes me smile, just a small one. 

“Well normally it would be the singing of a birthday song.” I grimace. “But I’ll spare you that, so next would be making a wish as you blow out the candle.” 

“A wish for what?” 

“Anything you want, just don’t tell anyone or it will never come true.” 

“Seriously.” I deadpan. 

“Yup!” A wish for anything I want… a solid nine hours of sleep would be nice, as would a vacation: one without any interruption. Those would probably be a waist, if they even miraculously came true, though Grayson would probable say there’s no such thing. A wish for anything, Grayson could probably give me suggestions. But looking at him I don’t think I need them. 

I blow out the candle. 

“Most would do opening presents and eating cake, not necessarily in that order.” 

“I don’t need-“

“Any presents, I figured. So, cake?” 

“Sure, I’ll have one small,” He raises an eyebrow at me.” One piece.” He quickly slices one for me and himself. As he sets mine down he asks. 

“What did you wish for?” 

“I thought I’m not supposed to say.” He shrugs a shoulder and takes a seat across from me. “Is there anything else?” 

“To a birthday?” I nod “Every family’s different but normally the number of candles on the cake is how old the person is turning.” 

“I have no way of knowing.” 

“I know, but if you had to guess.” I shrug.” How old do you feel?” That gives me pause, how old do I feel? Depends on the day. But if I take some of the things I remember from my childhood and the resources I now have. I would say maybe in my early thirty’s. 

“I suppose thirty three.” 

“Is that before or after your birthday?” 

“Before.” 

“Well then, Happy thirty fourth Birthday Tiger, may you have many more!” 

The cake is indeed chocolate, with mangos, and it is almost the best desert I’ve ever had, not that they’re something I’ve had even remotely close to often, but Grayson has always been better at baking. “Is it weird?” I break the comfortable silence we had fallen into. 

“What?” 

“Dating someone five years older than you?” He seems surprised I asked. 

“Not really, most of the people I've dated have been older. Besides it’s only for three months.” 

“So that’s everything to a birthday; those you care about, singing, cake and presents?” 

“For most Americans. Anything else is kind of up to the birthday person to decide, within reason of course. It is a celebration in their honor after all.” We finish desert, this time he allows me to help with dishes. I wash, he dries. When we finish he leans his back against the counter. “So, is there anything you want to do tonight? Only four more hours to decide.” 

“Nothing really comes to mind.” 

“Seriously, nothing?” He looks at me from the corner of his eyes a spark dancing in them. “You know some people get something for every year they’ve been alive, some it’s getting punched, others its kisses.” My eyes travel the lines of his form, when I reach his eyes; the intensity of his gaze freezes me in place. Slowly he approaches, stopping mere inches away. “Is there really nothing you can think of to celebrate your only thirty fourth birthday?” He leans forward on his toes, almost touching me before he’s stepping away, and out of the kitchen. “Maybe a tour?” With that look in his eyes I doubt it will last long. 


End file.
